They never tell you how haunting the process is to get ready to go to your cell. The frigid shower that's like glass shards cutting into your delicate back and worn out clothes that are as warm as the coldest night in the middle of winter. After this process was done the guards began to take me on the hike to my cell. The reformatory was deafening but also noiseless at the same time. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck begin to stand and the goosebumps rise the moment I walked through the door that led to the cells. As I walk past the cells they seem to be screaming back at me, screaming at me to look inside of them. The second I glance into the cell I see a young man no more than 20 years old trembling in the corner. I can hear no words, only muffled cries coming from the cell cries bad enough to make your spine shiver. 

Finally we arrive there, the place where my body shall lay for the rest of my coming days. By the time of my arrival it has already become night, the lights have all begun to fade and the silence has become more prominent. The silence is sickness and sickness takes over and destroys all that it can, it destroys your mind. Next thing I know I'm asleep and I begin to feel the covers of my bed tightening on me as if someone was tucking me into my bed. I then feel a hand pat me on my back just like my mother did when I was a child. I am paralyzed with fear that someone snuck into my room, or maybe I would be murdered by a cell mate. But I remember I was not given a cellmate and I remember them locking my cell before bed so I open my eyes but no one is there the only thing I see is my cover pulled tight over my body.

The next morning I wake up and pull my neatly tucked in covers off. When I begin to get up I feel a pain in my back. A pain that I have never seemed to feel before it felt as if my skin was burning off. When I looked into the mirror I saw a handprint that looked as if it was burned into my back like someone had slapped me so hard it caused me to develop a handprint on my back. On  my way to breakfast a guard was escorting me. We began to hear people walking and giggling like teenage girls telling each other a funny story. When the guard heard that our path on the way to breakfast changed directions. Our walk became a jog because they thought someone was where they didn't belong.The officer began shouting as the giggles became louder. The giggles reached a volume which could have considered them a scream. But by the time they were that loud we had reached the end of the hallway and there was no one there. The officer had been hearing things but, was he really hearing things if I heard them too. What could explain what had happened. We looked at eachother with fear in our eyes and then turned around and headed back on our way to dinner.

By the time night time had rolled around I was fearful of what I would experience tonight.Once again around twelve I felt the covers tightening but this time I heard humming as I was being tucked in. The humming was a recognizable song my wife would hum in the kitchen as she was washing the dishes. A song I loved to hear every night after the kids had gone to bed and we were left to clean up the mess. But when I opened my eyes this time I saw a silhouette, a very recognizable silhouette that I knew like the back of my hand. It was my wife who was standing there in the corner. It was my wife I had murdered in cold blood. How can I see her again? Why is she even here? I killed her. There is no way she can be here. Next thing I know I'm asleep but then morning comes around and the cells become alive. When the pain begins again in my back I take another look and see an H made out of handprints in my back. The letter of the girl's name who I loved the most.

After breakfast and lunch it was breaktime in our cells and almost everyone went outside but I stayed in my room because I was exhausted. I woke up thirty minutes into my break to a sound of a young boy screeching. I immediately ran out of my cell and followed those screams. The screams I have heard thousands of times in my life, the screams of my only child, it was my son. It seemed like it took hours to finally reach where the screams had come from. By the time I reached the basement I had seen a young boy curled in a ball crying. It was my son. I ran over to grab him because this place is not a place for children. When I got next to him his body was covered in blood and bruises. I picked him up. He was still screaming with his eyes closed. When he opened his eyes he continued to scream but this time he was screaming words, “Daddy how could you do this to me? How could you do this to me and mommy?” Over and over again he repeated these questions but I could never utter an answer for my son. He grabbed me by the neck and just when I thought I would pass out the squeezing had stopped and my son was gone. I now began the hike back to my cell.

After arriving back at my cell I walk over to my mirror and see a handprint burned into my neck. In the mirror once again I see my wife standing behind me holding my sheets. But this time when I turn to look at her she is still standing there. I walked over to her, maybe I could mutter up some type of apology as to why I did this to my family. Why I murdered my innocent family in cold blood. After I said my apologies she walked over as if she was going to hug me but instead she wrapped the sheets around my neck and pushed me off the balcony. The last thing I heard was a snap and then it all turned black. 

The zooming of the cars on the highway begins to quiet,

As the light begins to fade like your memories of childhood,

The flowers close their eyes preparing for the next day, 

The darkness begins to erupt with sounds,

As you waltz through the woods you hear them all, 

The owls are hooting,

The bugs are buzzing,

Sounds so loud they overwhelm your senses,

As you fade into the darkness,

Your mind stops racing,

Racing like the horses on a never ending track, 

You feel the relief where others feel fear,

You feel warm and safe in darkness,

Maybe because thats where you came from. 

I spent many years playing this game. Showing goats brought me happiness and also brought me sadness. The only people who seemed to win this game were the people willing to put the most money into it. Eventually, I became fed up with (it.)t. Despite quitting showing , I was always still passionate about goats. After many years, I had the opportunity to buy some goats. this time I purchased a different breed . I now had pygmy goats. Getting used to the new breed of goats was like trying to get used to watching a new television show. It takes a while; you eventually grow accustomed to them, and   then eventually grow to love it. I started with a small herd of goats, Dolly, Jolene, and Sparkplug. These goats seemed to make  my worst days better. They have eyes that make you feel loved and they have a heart of gold. Never in my life had I expected to be an owner of pygmy goats, but sometimes the unexpected things are the best things that could've happened in your life. 

The new goats were full of many surprises, they were intelligent and seemed to outsmart me in every way, but the best surprise they provided was when Dolly and Jolene each gave me a baby. The baa of the babies calling for their mothers is a sound I will never forget. It is the sound of a new beginning. I had two new goats, Hank and Josephine. Josephine came out as a healthy baby goat, and precious as can be.  Hank, on the other hand, came out sick. His mother rejected him immediately. 

The night Hank was born, I took him home. He was silent throughout the car ride like he knew I had saved his life. I was never alone on my journey  while raising Hank. My girlfriend even took him when I couldn't watch him. Hank was like my son, and we took him on vacations, he went shopping, and his favorite was when we would go fishing. He always brought a smile to  my face. Unfortunately, Hank's story never had a happy ending. Hank  got sick, and our lives stopped. We took him back and forth to appointments while I waited nervously by my phone, waiting for answers. The day Hank left will be a day I will never forget. I had gotten home from practice. My phone rang, through the muffled screams and cries, I could make out, "Hank is dead." My heart sank, and I could feel the burn in the back of my throat become uncontrollable. I saw her holding Hank, and upon my first glance, he looked so peaceful, he was no longer suffering. Hailey took him and I knew I would never see my baby again. 

My journey with goats is not close to being over. My showing experience taught me to stay determined.  My pygmy goats taught me to keep going and to try new things. Losing Hank taught me to hold onto what you love and always be passionate about what matters to you. Without my goats, I wouldn't be who I am today.